Deserters
by MorriganLaFey
Summary: Things aren't quite as they seem in midst of war, and when two enemies - two children on opposite sides - come together to escape their futures, they make a new one together. Hermione needs to be selfish, and Draco needs redemption. "I was wrong, so wrong. I need to do something right."
1. The girl, the boy and the fire

_A/N - WARNING: This story will deal with major themes such as depression, anxiety, and ptsd. It's a story of healing, however, so I can promise you a happy ending._

She didn't know where they were. That was the one thought that kept echoing in her head even as she ran between bodies and sent spell after spell at Death Eaters who were running out of Hogwarts; _she didn't know where they were_. Harry had disappeared some time after Voldemort's message and some of the Death Eaters were making a rather slow retreat and she didn't _fucking_ know where he was nor did she have any idea where Ron was and all she could think about was Fred, dead Fred under that pile of stones and she saw people dragging his body into the Great Hall and her vision became blurred with her tears. Fred, who with his twin always managed to coax a smile to her face. Fred, who along with his brother, had shown her that being smart wasn't just about good marks. Fred, who was the first person to find out about her crush on his younger brother and who dried her tears when he caught her crying over him last summer. George was still making miserable noises in the back of his throat, she could hear him from where she standing, and she tore her eyes away.

 _The best thing I can do for them is find their brother,_ she thought, _the best thing is to find and keep Ron safe._

And then she spotted his red hair and her face brightened because Ron was alright, and he saw her too, and he rushed towards the Great Hall and he gave her a tortured smile and —

He paused as Voldemort sent out another message. Harry was dead.

They locked their eyes. Time itself seemed to slow down, she felt as if she had just twisted a time turner and this was the moment right before the world started to spin and time started to reverse and then there was a light —

A Death Eater, who hadn't quite left yet despite their hour of cease fire, hit Ron with a green light right before all hell broke loose and she lost him from her vision. _He missed, dear Merlin tell me he missed!_

All of sudden she was outside. She'd gotten caught in the crowd rushing out and she hadn't seen Ron. And Harry was lying limp in Hagrid's arms. And she was doomed. She wasn't thinking about them now, no, now her massive brain was in overdrive because she had to survive — _she had to_. She could grieve and cry and shriek until she coughed out blood later — _blood, it all came back to that_ — but now she had to worry about herself, she was still alive, she had to survive, she had to worry about the living.

She felt eyes on her, burning _through_ her, and she turned and burned right back and she saw, she recognized her thoughts in someone else's pupils and if she had to be the hero, well, here was someone she'd save.

But she'd had it. She'd had it fighting a war that wasn't hers, not really, she'd had it being a hero and being loyal and sacrificing and fuck it, she was allowed a moment of selfishness. Ron had run, she was allowed a moment of fucking _humanity_.

She made her way slowly through the crowd gathered outside, and he moved towards her as well, and they met in the middle, everyone too focused on Voldemort to notice how two enemies — two broken children from opposing sides grabbed each other's hands and disappeared from the battle.

. . . . . . . . .

Nobody noticed him as he moved through the chaos, but he was there, and he saw. He saw the green light. He saw it go towards Weasley and though he didn't see it hit, he saw Weasley's body on the floor. And he saw Granger, beaten, bloody, broken Granger, her jaw slack and her mouth parted and the tears formed in her eyes but too frozen from shock to fall.

He saw it in her eyes, as if a switch had gone out and he recognized the look, that moment where the light in someone's eyes dies, where there's no hope, where faith won't keep you going and he knew that she'd seen too much.

And that made him itch for a chance to run. If Granger — good, golden Granger — had lost hope, had lost her fire, than what in Merlin's name did a spineless coward like Draco Malfoy hope to achieve?

 _Find your parents, then run._

He couldn't help thinking, as he ran through the Great Hall, ignoring glares and tears and the bodies — _oh fuck, the bodies_ — that this was all his fault. This madness — he'd chosen to help the man who was responsible. It was his fault, all this pain and torture that not only he was feeling, but countless others, _he was the bad guy._

So his suffering, in the end, would amount to nothing.

Because he was the monster in this story.

Or, he wasn't even that. He wasn't _that_ important. Simply a coward who did nothing for anyone.

The Hero had just died. He hadn't been the good guy. And he couldn't even say that his horrible actions were to keep himself safe, because the Dark Lord no longer cared for the Malfoy's nor their many sacrifices. Draco had nothing to speak for what he'd done.

Voldemort came, parading Potter's corpse like a fucking trophy, and Draco saw his aunt dancing and cackling madly, making him feel ill, and then he noticed his parents, and they were alive and all of a sudden Draco didn't care anymore. He felt angry. Angry at his father for bringing this into their lives. Angry at his mother for letting him. Angry at their whole fucking family and their bloodline and their _fucking_ legacy, fuck the Malfoy name, _fuck it all to hell_.

They were alive, not safe, but alive and there was no way he was going to stay wether their side won or not, and as if it were magic itself he turned his head, about to disapparate when he saw her, and she looked —

 _There was his chance._

To do something, anything, as a last ditch effort to not be the coward, at least in his own mind, to do something, anything that actually mattered.

He remembered the feeling of helplessness back at the Manor, when she was screaming and begging and he did nothing and good god he hated it, hated himself, his bitch of an aunt, hated Granger for getting caught and being filthy, and how he had longed to do something.

And then her eyes turned to him, burning with the same self-preservation his own had always burned with. Yes, he would run, but he'd do something, anything, to make up for it, to make up for everything.

And they both moved together, opposites attracting like magnets, until they collided in the middle and neither hesitated, she put her hand in his and he grabbed her and thought of a place they could hide, and run. _I was wrong, so wrong, I need to do something right_.

She had trouble opening her eyes that morning. Not because she didn't want to but because her eyes were glued together from all the tears she'd shed the previous night. Her head felt like it would explode, as if all the memories of yesterday's horror were wracking havoc in her head, making sure to leave a permanent mark in her brain.

. . . . . . . . .

She rubbed her bleary eyelids until she was able to pry them apart and stood up off the small bed she'd slept in, confused with her surroundings. She felt dizzy on her sore legs, as if she were a foal testing them out, and had to hold onto the wall for balance.

It was there, whilst she was focusing on the floorboards between her feet and clutching the wall that she remembered, that every detail came whirling back into her mind until she wasn't staring at floorboards anymore, no, but a small puddle of salty tears that dripped from her swollen eyes. She made a pained gasp as her knees made contact with the ground, but couldn't find the strength to stand again so she sat there, face buried in her hands.

. . . . . . . . .

He hadn't been able to fall asleep last night. He'd listened to her sobbing while she'd taken a shower and then he'd listened to it while she lay in the bedroom he'd pointed out to her and now, he was still lying in his bed not sleeping, but listening to her cry again.

He'd nearly dozed off, tired from the shock of it all about an hour after she'd finally passed out in her own bed but then she started screaming. He knew she was having night terrors, but hadn't woken her up to comfort her. _I don't know her that well_ , he'd thought, _I'd be intruding_. Never mind the fact that the idea of touching her, of being near her still made him feel uncomfortable. It was hard to let go of his past prejudices, and though he finally knew blood purity was bullshit, he needed time. Rome wasn't built in a day, and Draco Malfoy couldn't destroy his prejudice in a night.

He wasn't even sure how he'd managed to grab her hand (unusually warm, though not clammy, not unpleasant), perhaps their combined adrenaline and the moment of it all, and then he'd somehow managed to apparate away, to an old Malfoy cottage everyone had forgotten about but that his mother had given him as a present on his fifteenth birthday.

 _"It's been warded,"_ she'd said, in a neutral tone as she sipped her tea, _"And only you can access it."_

He hadn't appreciated it then, and the only thing that kept him from throwing a fit was how rigid her mother held herself, as if all the weight of the world rested on her shoulders, and he wondered now if she'd somehow known back then.

. . . . . . . . .

Harry had won.

He had won, and yet he had lost. He watched Ron run back into the Great Hall for the fourth time, scanning the room with his blue eyes and each passing second his newly found hope dissipated again.

"She's out there, Harry. She _has_ to be out there." he said, when Harry came up to him. Harry felt his throat tighten and he grit his teeth. Ron looked at him and put a hand on his shoulder, "She has to be, Harry."

"What's your plan?"

Draco Malfoy looked up from his cup of coffee, nearly spitting out the liquid in his mouth at her sudden appearence. He wiped his chin with a napkin, and swallowed to clear his throat. "What are you talking about?"

Granger sneered, and it felt a little disconcerting to see an expression he wore himself so often on her face. It was out of place, and looked a bit ridiculous, what with her wild, curly bedhead and the old nightgown she was wearing. Draco found his eyes pulled to the way the thin fabric stretched over her breasts and, with difficulty, tore them away so he could focus on her voice.

"— sitting ducks in this god forsaken villa —"

"It's a cottage, Granger —"

"Fuck off," she growled, before continuing, "We need to get out of this country and we need to do it now."

Draco narrowed his eyes at her profanity, momentarily taken aback, but he supposed she'd just finished with denial, and even if her anger was directed at him, well it wasn't as if he hadn't warranted it. He sipped his coffee, basking in the feeling of her fuming while she waited for him to finish. He dabbed his napkin at non-existent moisture on his lips and raised his eyebrows at her.

"How?" he said, finally, with a serious tone. "The Dark Lord has control over the Ministry, can't floo, can't portkey, and you can't apparate into another country without alerting someone, which will get back to _him_."

She laughed at him — actually _fucking_ laughed. Now it was his turn to fume, his face turning a light shade of pink while she continued to snicker dryly and with condescension.

"Fucking wizards," she grinned at his irritation. "So close-minded, so dull. Muggles travel in and out of the country all of the time. And I assume the Dark Lord doesn't give two craps about that, now does he?"

Draco frowned, but she turned her back on him, continuing with her little spiel, "Of course nobody thought of using Muggle methods to get out, did they? Stupid bastards, all of you. That's how most of the other Muggleborns got out, you know? Flew out of the country, some actually decided to leave in style and took a cruise." She turned to him then, a spark in her eye as she checked off items on her fingers, "We need to pack, obviously we need money, and passports —"

"Passports?" She shook her hand at him, throwing herself into this plan.

"Muggle identification needed to cross the barriers between countries, no big deal, I have mine at home and we can transfigure one for you."

"Granger," he started, but she shook him off again.

"I still have some money in my muggle bank account, enough for two plane tickets and maybe a few nights in a hotel, and — and we can sell things!"

"Granger," he said, louder, she grabbed a stray piece of parchment and started scratching notes, "Granger —"

"The continent, maybe, or America? I think I have a cousin in New York —"

"Granger!" he yelled, and she looked at him, with wet cheeks and tears dripping down her face. Her hands were shaking and she gripped the quill until her knuckles were whiter than Draco's hair.

He looked at her, his face slack. He swallowed, clenching his jaw and his eyes betrayed his thinly veiled pity. She wiped her eyes with her palms, laughing under her breath, "I'm sorry, I just —I'm fine."

Draco didn't say anything for awhile, before opening his mouth, closing it and then opening again, "You aren't." She looked at him. "Fine, I mean. Nobody is — could be, and," he paused, licking his lips, "Neither am I, you know. But, throwing yourself into a job, it won't —"

"Don't." she turned her back on him again. He saw how her shoulders were shaking.

"Granger," he didn't know why, but he needed to make her feel better, for his own sake — this camaraderie he felt for for the girl which he couldn't understand, maybe because she was the only person he had —

Now that was a realization. True, but painful. His parents were out of the question, and though he had friends, none of them were trustworthy now, not when he'd denounced the Dark Lord and run off with Potter's mudblood.

She was still shaking, so he placed a hand on her shoulder. "Sometimes," she murmured, "Sometimes we just want relief, fuck the ramifications."

He started walking away, thinking that he could her a cup of coffee, or maybe food would calm her down, or he could simply hide since he really didn't know how to deal with crying women.

"I just want to be okay, even if for only a little while."

He understood the feeling, wanting to throw oneself into something, and maybe, maybe that was why he was busying himself with Granger. To focus on her demons was to hide his own.

. . . . . . . . .

 _A/N - I'm not sure how long this will be or how much I'll update, but I do find reviews to be motivating. I hope you enjoy it so far._


	2. We Who Run, They Who Chase

He stepped into the cottage, now bare and empty, shaking Granger's beaded bag with a smug smirk. He was met with a cool reception, however, and the glee on his expression wavered when faced with Granger's bloodshot eyes. She was clutching her head, fingers pulling at the hair on her scalp, looking at him as if she were a puppy he'd kicked.

"Did you get them?"

Draco felt her words, rough and raspy, bring goosebumps to his skin. After two weeks of her screaming through the night, he wasn't surprised her voice sounded so broken. Two nights in, and he'd started to put up silencing charms. He'd considered suggesting a potion to deal with her night terrors, but then that would mean acknowledging that he'd heard her, and he had a feeling she wouldn't appreciate his concern.

They skirted around each other, ignoring one another to the best of their abilities. When he'd sat at the breakfast table with short sleeves that showed off both his mark and the thin cuts — the clean, slow, lines that marked his right arm evenly, uniformed — she'd simply glossed over them, and then set her burning eyes back to her plate. He'd expected a comment — part of him even hoped for it, yearned for a confrontation, a _fight_ — but it was like she didn't see them, like they didn't exist.

He'd done the same with her, though. She'd worn a sleeveless dress, her lips twitching and her face cold, showing off her _own_ painful stain of the war. To him, that didn't exist, either.

A lot of things didn't exist.

Now, she looked at him, those wide, empty eyes staring up, he considered that maybe their approach hadn't been the smartest. The longer they pretended the worse it would be when they finally stopped.

"Yes, I got them," he threw the beaded bag to her, and she grabbed it out of the air, "As many pointless, expensive trinkets I could find, as well as any jewellery."

She didn't reply, opening the bag and pulling out an old necklace that looked as if it were made by trolls. "I hope the rest don't all look like _this_ ," she frowned, "I don't think anyone would buy it even if it were on the cover of Vogue."

He grimaced at the jumbled up piece of gold and poorly cut gemstones she held up with two of her fingers, privately agreeing with her assessment, though he had no idea what _Vogue_ was. "That's from when my great grandmother Cecilia took up jewellery making as a hobby. Most of the others are goblin-made."

"Thank Merlin." murmured Hermione, dropping the horrid thing back into her bag.

He ran his fingers through his hair, "I assume your trip worked out as well?"

She held up another bag, one in an odd shape with two straps on one side and a multitude of zippers, "Nobody's found my house yet, apparently, so I managed to get anything we may need."

"Same charms as that one?" he asked, gesturing towards the beaded bag. She nodded, turning to check each item off the list she'd made. Her lips were still pursed and curved downward, brows furrowed and angry. He came up behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Granger," he whispered, "We're ready. We're more than ready."

"We'll leave in a week—"

"We're ready to leave tomorrow." Draco cut in. He felt her tense underneath his fingertips and sighed. "They'd want you to live, Granger. If they could tell you that themselves, they would."

He saw her jaw clench, "You don't get to tell me what they'd want, Malfoy." she whispered, but the words had no bite behind them. She stood up, suddenly, brushing her palms on her jeans roughly, as if she meant to rub the skin off of them.

His fists tightened. Over time, Draco had grown accustomed, even fond, of Hermione Granger. She did not share in that experience; she was a cat and he was water, he brought out the worst in her.

. . . . . . . . .

Narcissa Malfoy straightened her robes, before sitting down across from him. Harry felt his fingers twitch, eyes moving towards the exit, the window, the fireplace — anywhere he could use to escape this uncomfortable situation.

She'd owled him, said that they had _mutual interests_ and that perhaps they could discuss them over tea and biscuits. He'd considered sending her the ashes of that letter and a howler that told her where to stuff her _mutual interests_ but she'd saved his life, in the end.

He sat there, rubbing his palms on his jeans. He'd worn muggle clothing, partly for their comfort in an otherwise extremely tense situation, but mostly for the brief expression of disgust that passed Mrs Malfoy's face when her eyes ran down his form.

"I assume your husband won't be joining us, then?" asked Harry, taking pleasure at the way her eyes hardened at him.

"Lucius was not as lucky as I," she answered, graciously, "Thank you, once again." She was referring to his testimony at her trial.

"Tit for tat, I suppose." Harry frowned, "But I hope you didn't call me here just to say thanks."

"No," she paused, her hands clenching, "Draco is missing. I thought you might know where he may be."

"I don't."

"You may think you don't," she agreed, "But I think he may have disappeared along with your friend, Miss Granger."

Harry laughed at that, a dry, unpleasant laugh. "If there's one thing I know about your son, Mrs Malfoy, is that he despises Hermione and she doesn't care for his existence either."

Narcissa pursed her lips, "Be that as it may, war makes strangers of us all, Mr Potter. I never thought I'd end up saving you, and yet I did. I also know that he prattled on about her endlessly since he first met her. You may not think he was fond of her, and he may not either, but a mother always knows."

Harry stood up, ready to walk out, but Narcissa rushed to her feet. "I will sponsor the search for both my son and your friend, Mr Potter. As long as you share your resources and your leads, I shall do the same."

He paused. "I suppose we can work something out."

. . . . . . . .

Draco felt as if something was crawling over his skin.

He was in a building full of muggles for the first time in his life and while he knew, logically, that what he'd been taught was nothing more than the spiel of a racist elitist society, the whisper in his ear that muttered _filth_ powered through his reason. He gripped Granger's hand tighter in defiance of that whisper. She didn't seem to care, eyes flicking back and forth around the room, scanning everyone and everything with eyes that she'd charmed to look blue. Golden blonde hair cascaded out of an odd hat with what looked like a duck's bill on one end, her curls transfigured straight and short.

By contrast, his hair was a thick brown, curling past his ears, and his chin itched from the facial hair she;d given him. He wanted to scratch it with his hand, but if he did then he'd have to look at it and it was covered with freckles. Freckles that made his stomach lurch every time he looked at them. Freckles that had made Granger's eyes sheen when she'd look at them, and so she'd taken to not looking at him for the duration of this adventure.

He'd always despised freckles, simply for their connotation with the Weasley's, but now his disdain for them went deeper, somehow. _Maybe because she won't look at you with those on your skin_ , muttered his conscience, _but then, she never_ really _looks at you_.

"We're boarding," she told him, yanking him by the arm. He let her pull him along, if only to feel wanted, in some way, let her hand the tickets to the muggle and let her spin the story of how they'd just gotten engaged, giggling and smiling in his direction. _Blend in_ , she'd told him, _Act as different from ourselves as we can_. If the smile he gave the muggle seemed a little wan, Granger's acting seemed to make up for the both of them and the man congratulated them and wished them a good trip, not taking notice of the way neither of their smiles reached their eyes nor the weariness in their expressions.

. . . . . . . . .

He feels small, as he boards the plane and leaves the crowded airport, and then the metal machine takes off and he sees the endless city and the endless land. He's felt small a lot, this past year, more than he had in his lifetime. He feels small when he considers the muggles, the multitude who live in England, who lived in the same time and place as a war and never really knew. Never really saw. It didn't exist to them.

And that makes him feel smaller. All the suffering he went through doesn't exist to these people, even less than it did to his own. He's certain Hermione Granger, who sits next to him and who'd suffered through plenty more, would scoff at his pain. She might even say it was justified. But at least she knew it happened. These people didn't. And it baffled Draco, because what didn't exist to them was everything in the world to him right now.

He feels even smaller when the plane flies higher — feels ill, as well, but Granger tells him to calm down and it works, somewhat — and he wonders how that dreadful man who isn't even a man, anymore, thinks he can actually win everything. The world is huge, much bigger than Draco understood. The Dark Lord can fly without a broom, but Granger told him that muggles have inventions that could wipe out a city. She tells him it's okay, really, that they don't have to stay. That they are just two people and they can't make a difference anymore and it'd be better to live and keep the memories of their loved ones alive. The muggles will be fine, she says. Other countries have powerful magical communities, she says. It won't get out of hand, she says. emWe're not running away/em, she doesn't say. He know it must kill the Gryffindor in her, but Hermione Granger has always been smart, and staying in England would be stupid.

Hermione Granger has never been stupid. And Draco Malfoy, well, he's always been a coward.

. . . . . . . . .

"Wake up, I think we're almost there," he says, and she groans. Her back aches in protest at the way she'd fallen asleep, upset that after two weeks of emfinally/em sleeping on a proper bed it's being subjected to this torture, and she cringes at the way her neck cracks.

The boy next to her clutches onto the armrest, still uncomfortable at the sensation of landing despite this being his fourth time this week. "Why do we have to stop at so many places?" he'd whinged when she'd explained to him what connected flights were. She'd rolled her eyes, ignored the way he swallowed whatever other complaint he'd had at her obvious contempt towards him, and muttered that she was just trying to be safe.

They landed finally, and Draco's face, which she'd charmed to look tanned this time, had a slight green tint to it.

"Canada," said Draco, "It's not that far from England, really. Why not somewhere else?"

"The Wizarding community here is on bad term with the British ministry. When the first settlers came, the witches and wizards here had a good relationship with their muggle counterparts. Most of the magical folk who came from Europe simply joined their Magical community, but the European muggles were awful with the aboriginal muggles and the native magical folk couldn't stand for that. They appealed to the British Ministry of Magic for help but they refused to get involved. To this day they haven't forgiven them." said Granger, lecturing him as they exited the airport. "The Magical community is extraordinary here; muggleborns are celebrated, there's less magical regulations and students are encouraged to learn both muggle subjects and magical ones. Makes me wish I was born here instead of in England."

The two of them made their way out, into a bus. They spent over an hour on the road, switching buses and then a subway, and then a train. She saw Draco stare at everything in awe and confusion, running into her when she stopped suddenly in front of a building.

"We're here." she said, grabbing his hand and ignoring the way her heart tightened at the feeling. "Time to get ourselves an apartment."

 _A/N - Sorry for the long wait, but unfortunately school has just begun and the waits may get longer. I have an idea of where this will go, and I think there'll be a total of five chapters, but who knows? Maybe check out my other story while you wait for an update on this, because I'm planning on updating that next by the end of the week. As always, reviews do motivate me to write faster and I would love to hear from anyone who reads my writing! Until next time._


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